‘The commander-in-chief cast an abstracted and sullen glance at him, growled angrily, “Well?” ... Yegor stood like a statue, showing his teeth as if he were grinning! Looking at him from the side, you’d say the fellow was laughing! ‘Then the commander-in-chief jerked out: “Hang him!” spurred his horse, and moved on, first at a walking-pace, then at a quick trot. The whole staff hurried after him; only one adjutant turned round on his saddle and took a passing glance at Yegor. ‘To disobey was impossible.... Yegor was seized at once and led off to execution. ‘Then he broke down altogether, and simply gasped out twice, “Gracious heavens! gracious heavens!” and then in a whisper, “God knows, it wasn’t me!” ‘Bitterly, bitterly he cried, saying good-bye to me. I was in despair. “Yegor! Yegor!” I cried, “how came it you said nothing to the general?” ‘“God knows, it wasn’t me!” the poor fellow repeated, sobbing. The woman herself was horrified. She had never expected such a dreadful termination, and she started howling on her own account! She fell to imploring all and each for mercy, swore the hens had been found, that she was ready to clear it all up.... ‘Of course, all that was no sort of use. Those were war-times, sir! Discipline! The woman sobbed louder and louder. ‘Yegor, who had received absolution from the priest, turned to me. ‘“Tell her, your honour, not to upset herself.... I’ve forgiven her.”’ My acquaintance, as he repeated this, his servant’s last words, murmured, ‘My poor Yegor, dear fellow, a real saint!’ and the tears trickled down his old cheeks. _August 1879._ WHAT SHALL I THINK?... What shall I think when I come to die, if only I am in a condition to think anything then? Shall I think how little use I have made of my life, how I have slumbered, dozed through it, how little I have known how to enjoy its gifts? ‘What? is this death? So soon? Impossible! Why, I have had no time to do anything yet.... I have only been making ready to begin!’ Shall I recall the past, and dwell in thought on the few bright moments I have lived through--on precious images and faces? Will my ill deeds come back to my mind, and will my soul be stung by the burning pain of remorse too late? Shall I think of what awaits me beyond the grave ... and in truth does anything await me there? No.... I fancy I shall try not to think, and shall force myself to take interest in some trifle simply to distract my own attention from the menacing darkness, which is black before me. I once saw a dying man who kept complaining they would not let him have hazel-nuts to munch!... and only in the depths of his fast-dimming eyes, something quivered and struggled like the torn wing of a bird wounded to death.... _August 1879._ ‘HOW FAIR, HOW FRESH WERE THE ROSES ...’ Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a poem. It was soon forgotten ... but the first line has stuck in my memory-- ‘_How fair, how fresh were the roses ..._’